


It Isn't the Same

by Anonymous



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-09 22:35:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12898272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Celebrían senses Elrond is discontented roughly two years after his arrival in Aman, and receives insight and assistance from another recent refugee





	It Isn't the Same

Celebrían leaned against the jamb of the doorway to her husband’s office, watching him with love and concern. Just having the privilege to stand there and see him, to actually _know_ that he was just within the next room, to have the certainty that all she had to do was walk forward a few steps and put out a hand to _touch_ him or embrace him, was a relief beyond all measure. The two _ennin_ without him after finishing her healing in Lórien had been difficult. She’d had him with her a little more than a year now, and it still amazed her that he had finally come and was here with her, at least physically, in the home she had made for him while she waited.

Today, as it had for the last few days, however, his mind was clearly elsewhere. He stood motionless, hands clasped behind him, staring out the glassed doors to the garden beyond, watching the rain, his mid-morning tea forgotten and probably cold on his all-too-clean desk. No piles of documents awaited his attention, only a single letter from Elu Thingol asking him once more to reconsider a position as counselor to the Sindar’s court. Celebrían herself took care of the day to day responsibilities for Barvedui, thinking he would enjoy a respite from the burden of care. Now, watching him stand utterly frozen, she was beginning to wonder if she’d been wrong.

He said nothing during their moments together about any dissatisfaction at all, but she could feel it pouring from him now, when he wasn’t aware of her presence. Perhaps his mood had come about because it was nearly the middle of the rainy season here in Barvedui; and in less than two weeks, it would be the second Midwinter since his arrival in Aman. The first had passed virtually without notice, as busy as they had been traveling from one court to the next, but this one would be a vastly different Midwinter from the ones he was used to in Ennor. She had done her utmost to recreate a home for the two of them that resembled his beloved Imladris in as many details as possible, but she couldn’t change the weather – or the fact that the only snow in Eldamar was found on the distant peaks of the Pelóri. Winters in the environs surrounding Alqualondë were wet and chilly only, very different from those in Imladris.

He had loved to ice skate, she remembered. Every afternoon during the winter months, he had put down his cares and duties for a short time and dressed warmly so that he could glide about the circle of ice in the courtyard with his people. There would be singing, and laughter, and jokes about reddened noses and the dusting of snowflakes on shoulders sometimes. It was a time of togetherness and companionship with the entire population of Imladris, during a season when it was nigh on impossible for anything else to happen. Roads and passes were closed, visitors few, and even the incursion of orcs slowed to almost nothing. It was a short, blessed time of peace in the middle of bitter war, something they all cherished dearly.

Celebrían smiled, remembering how they had taught each of their children to skate when young, holding little hands and guiding until they were stable enough on their own. She also remembered standing back safely out of the way when the boys would challenge Arwen to races that held the possibility of mowing down and scattering the more sedate skaters even as a poker scattered the glowing embers of a log when thrust strongly enough. Elladan could convince his father to join in their mischief sometimes, and she would once more stand on the sidelines, this time luxuriating in the way her beloved would throw off his authority and become as an oversized child again for a few, precious minutes. 

Glorfindel had been all too easy to coerce to play as well, as he enjoyed skating even more than Elrond had, and it suddenly occurred to her that her husband could be missing his Battle Master and friend as well. So many he loved dearly had been left behind to come here: two sons – three, if one counted the Dúnadan who now wore the crown in Gondor – a daughter, a daughter-in-law and two adopted mortal granddaughters, his Battle Master, and almost half of the denizens of Imladris who had been with him since the very beginning.

Once again, as had happened far too many times in the time since she had welcomed him to his new home, she was struck by how faded he truly had become by remaining in Ennor, how very fragile in so many ways. Through Erestor, she had learned of many of the events and developments in her family during the time between her sailing and Elrond’s, and she frankly marveled that he still had the ability to smile at all. Elrond had told her little other than the fact that their children – those who had chosen the life of the Firstborn, at any rate – weren’t ready to quit the East yet. They were waiting, waiting for Arwen and Estel to die before making any firm plans.

Here in Eldamar, Elrond had gone through the motions to make peace with his parents, but the resulting relationship wasn’t close at all – Elwing remained far too involved with her visits with Eärendil during his nighttime flights to bother with much on the ground, and Eärendil’s life was bound up with Vingilot and its voyages. Elrond had also made the requisite rounds of the courts after she had allowed him to emerge from a retreat to deal with the worst of his exhaustion. Minyar, Noldor, Teler and Sindar, he had visited and conferred with all of them and politely refused positions of authority in each in order to finally retreat to Barvedui. The invitations to visit again, each of which tended to end with yet another offer of a job and a hopeful desire that he would reconsider his decision, had yet to cease. 

He had even refused her offer to accompany him to Lórien for a time, where he could receive the kind of healing that she herself had required, stubbornly clinging to the notion that he was fine, that all he needed was time and peace and her beside him. But he wasn’t fine, and every day that passed convinced her of that more and more. For the past two months, since getting him to herself in Barvedui at last, she had coddled him to the extent he would allow, knowing that in the months after her own rescue he had literally spent himself trying to coddle _her_ back to health. She didn’t remember much of those months when she had barely existed, unable to move forward, and unable to move past the evil that had been done to her. Now, although she had a feeling that Elrond was more in control of his faculties than she had been, she was seeing things from the other side and not enjoying it in the least. He was merely existing here, not living.

In fact, were it not for the hobbits in his care and the way he unfailingly responded to them, she’d have gone to Estë immediately for assistance. Elrond evidently felt a great responsibility toward those two tiny creatures that had chosen to remain in his household and keeping, and he consistently set aside his own concerns to be open and available and supportive of them whenever possible. For Frodo, Celebrían could see, a benign façade such as the one he presented them was necessary; the younger hobbit was even more fragile than Elrond, it seemed, even more drained by the evil of the Ring he had borne and seen destroyed. But she suspected Bilbo, as aged as he was, was keen enough to see through the mask her husband hid behind.

“He’s brooding again, isn’t he?”

She started at the sound of a voice rougher than most Elven voices, and then looked down into the wizened face of the very person she had just been thinking of. The dark brown eyes in that incredibly aged face were bright and intelligent, and quite awake for that hour of the day. In them she saw both concern and understanding, and she relented enough to give a small sigh before turning back to gaze at her husband again. “It seems so,” she answered in a half-whisper.

“It’s nearly Midwinter, and I must admit that it doesn’t feel like one,” Bilbo commented equally quietly. “By now, at home in Imladris, there would be snow and ice…”

“The only place in Eldamar where one can find snow is on the mountain peaks,” Celebrían answered sadly, struck both by the way the hobbit had referred to Imladris as ‘home’ as well as the content of his comment. Could hobbits read minds? “Frankly, I was hoping the milder weather would be a pleasant change for him.” She gestured with her nose at her husband. “I had forgotten his joy in the winters.”

The hobbit rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. “Do the Elves of Aman not celebrate Midwinter at all? I have been waiting to see what holiday plans begin to appear, but have noticed nothing so far; and last year, the day passed completely without comment in Tirion…”

“Not really. At least…” Celebrían made a wry face. “…it is not celebrated by those who have been here longest, who seem to hold the most sway in setting traditions. I was going to have a feast for everyone here on that night anyway, regardless, but most of the traditions from Imladris that I believe Elrond is missing at the moment have to do with living in a very cold place.”

“You know, we hobbits have many traditions we use to celebrate Midwinter, and while some of them are about the cold outside, many more of them are about family and friends and simple joy in living and being together when the weather is less than charitable outside. This rain…” The ancient face wrinkled in dislike. “It isn’t as cold as home, but it’s certainly disagreeable.” Bilbo rubbed the side of his nose thoughtfully. “Perhaps you should consider celebrating Midwinter anyway, despite the habits of those who have been here the longest, and making new traditions? I think, my lady,” he stated after a short pause, during which Celebrían could see him studying her husband’s back closely, “his problem could be that he lacks an expected distraction at this time of year. Holidays are nothing but distracting, you know, and generally welcome ones at that.”

Celebrían blinked. Perhaps a distraction was just what her husband needed. “What kind of traditions do your people have that do not depend upon the extreme cold weather of a Shire winter, Master Bilbo? Could you tell me about them?” The idea was intriguing. What was more, Elrond, being a Master of Lore, might be drawn out of his sinking moods if there were new information and activities around him. Bilbo was every bit as observant and intelligent as she had suspected, and suddenly she was very grateful that Elrond had taken these quaint and resilient creatures into his household. His solicitude toward them and their needs could be the key to addressing his own, unexpressed, needs.

“Are there any pine trees that grow around here?” Bilbo grinned at her. “Or holly? Or…”

“Come with me.” Celebrían put out her hand to the hobbit. “Knowing your people, a good deal of the celebrations and traditions you will speak of find their beginnings in the kitchen. Let us find Aurin and make some plans.”

oOoOo

“Bilbo’s idea, you say?” Elrond asked, carrying back to her two refilled goblets of the last of the mulled wine from the party. He had risen to refresh their drinks before one of Aurin’s assistants bore away the punchbowl that had sat in the center of the buffet table in the Hall of Fire. The evening had been very pleasant indeed, the feast delicious with a number of hearty hobbit recipes, and the festivities afterwards most enjoyable. Even Frodo, as reclusive and shy as he had become of late, had been drawn out to demonstrate a bit more appetite and even smile again.

But now that most in residence had retired for the evening, Elrond was determined to enjoy the peace and quiet with his wife. It had been a long time since last he had enjoyed a Midwinter celebration as much as he had this one, and the entire reason for that was the lovely lady he had waiting for his return with her goblet.

Celebrían nodded, her hand outstretched for her final taste of this Shire treat. “To a greater extent, yes, most of this was his inspiration. He mentioned that it was not feeling like Midwinter this year, and that he had missed last year’s entirely – and he was right. The Amani do not celebrate Midwinter at all, and I had fallen in with their calendar of holidays, forgetting what we used to do in Imladris until he mentioned it. As he and I spoke together, we thought that maybe many of you who are newly arrived here could use a taste of home and our own traditions right about now. How better to do that than to throw a Midwinter feast and festival.”

Elrond nodded and looked about the Hall. “Where did you find the pine for the decorations?” Pine boughs were everywhere, tastefully arranged with candles and silver ribbons on tables and a few spots on the walls. The Hall had filled that night with the scent of pine and good food, much to the joy of those who had gathered for the evening of dining and music and dancing.

“I sent Arthor with a request to my grandfather in Tirion. The letter he sent back with the supplies I requested was most amused and a little confused, but he was willing to help.” She sipped at the warm wine. “And Aurin still had a good supply of the _narutawar_ from Harad for the seasoning for the wine, although...” Celebrían chuckled. “You should have heard Bilbo arguing with her about ‘ruining a perfectly fine wine’ until he finally convinced her to take a sip of a sample batch.”

Elrond found himself chuckling as well. Aurin was a strong-willed woman who, while more than willing in the past to attempt recipes from lands far from her own, now seemed quite contented to prepare exclusively Elven dishes since arriving in the Blessed Lands. As he remembered, her ‘discussions’ with Gilraen about more traditional Dúnedain fare had given the kitchen staff many occasions for mirth in days past. “The exchange was worthy of an audience, I take it?”

Celebrían’s musical laughter ever lifted his spirits, no less now than they had in the early days of their courtship. Once more, in hearing it, Elrond felt a little bit of his heart that he had needed to lock away just to survive her loss soften and come to life again, aching ever so slightly. “Oh! There was a moment when I wondered if I would need to ask Ceberon to replaster the walls of the kitchen, so heated was the debate!”

“I almost wish I could have been there.” He sipped at the wine, finding the addition of spice to the excellent vintage a most bracing beverage. “I do hope that Aurin made note of the recipe for future use, for I find this warms me in this damp clime better than any tea.”

“If not, I will ask the hobbit myself for the recipe,” she vowed with a mischievous grin. 

“And that?” Elrond swung his goblet upwards in the direction of the little sprig of herb that hung in the doorway to the Hall of Fire, decorated with a lively red bow. “I saw many of our people either giving it a very strange look or ignoring it. Does it have a story I should be aware of?”

“According to Master Baggins, back in the Shire, _melchalen_ would usually be the only thing that would remain green when all around it had gone grey and sleeping in the cold, and a bit of it was brought inside at Midwinter to remind those who celebrated the holiday of the days of warmth and sun which would return,” she answered somberly, but then got a strange look in her eye. “There is a legend concerning it, however, that he disclosed to me privately…”

“Indeed?” Elrond smiled as he felt her press in closer to him. Never again would he take for granted the ability to hold his beloved in his arms, he promised himself as he circled her shoulders and drew her even closer. “And will you tell me this legend, or must I wait until morning and awaken our guest for satisfaction?”

“No, you will not need to wait.” Celebrían smiled gently, took another sip of her wine, and then relieved him of his goblet to put them both on a half-empty credenza. “Come with me.”

Elrond’s brows lifted towards his circlet, but he allowed her to draw him into the doorway until the two of them stood directly beneath the little sprig under discussion. “Bilbo said that his people told a tale of a woman who was so grateful to the Powers when her husband was healed of a fever in the depths of Midwinter, when most merely sickened worse and perished, that she swore an oath that on Midwinter night, she would kiss every man who stood with her under the leaves of the _melchalen_ ,” she related softly. “And so the tradition is…”

He didn’t let her finish, but wrapped his arms about her tightly before bending to kiss her, at first softly, and then with greater feeling. His heart was beating faster when he finally moved to deposit a kiss of pure love and contentedness on the crown of her head. “An interesting legend, and I believe it makes for a good tradition,” he announced in a slightly shaken voice. “Perhaps we should consider keeping it?”

“I know this is not Imladris, and I know that there is no snow or ice, and I know you miss being able to skate, but…” she began, leaning hard against his chest.

Elrond’s arms tightened possessively, even as he cringed inwardly that she would plumb both his mood and the causes of it so easily. “I will adapt, _meleth_ , I promise. I just need time…”

“I know you keep telling me this, but sometimes I think…” She paused for a moment, and then blurted out, “Do not hold in your feelings from me, Elrond,” she begged. “Do not hide your discontents and sorrows for fear I will not understand. Honestly, I do not expect you to be delirious with joy here – at least, not yet. It took years for me to accept Barvedui as a home, and I built it. Let me help you, when you grieve for all you left behind, or at least let me help you share the burden of memories. Now that you are here, and there is so much to remind me of Ennor, I find I miss Imladris too, and those who remain.” 

Elrond stood for a long moment, holding the one thing that he had most desired in his life for far too long, thinking about the many ways in which he had been… dissatisfied… of late. And, for a change, he stepped back from his emotions so that he could look at himself dispassionately. This was his home now – Imladris was forever lost to him – and he had just been shown that new traditions could easily and enjoyably take the place of those in which he could no longer share.

“I do not care that the other Amani do not celebrate Midwinter,” he whispered finally. “For as long as I am Lord of Barvedui, the Imladhrim _will_ celebrate it, and with traditions we shall borrow with permission from the Shire as well as those we will create of whole cloth on our own as time passes.” He brushed his lips across Celebrían’s forehead, as much an expression of devotion as contrition. “I apologize for my mood of late and shutting you away from my sorrows, and I promise to try more to adjust or at least speak to you of them when they vex me.”

“That is all I ask, _meleth_ ,” Celebrían told him, her arms tightening about him. “We are stronger together than apart. We always have been.”

Elrond nodded. “And we shall have to find a way to thank Bilbo properly for his assistance in helping me out of that sorry mood. But later.” He bent to kiss a cheek. “Much later. Late tomorrow morning, perhaps.”

Somehow, he could tell that she was smiling against his robe in the way she snuggled her face into his chest. “I think that is an admirable idea,” was her muffled response.

As he turned her to head off towards their suite of rooms, his eye landed on the two goblets on the credenza, and then he looked up at the cheery sprig of _melchalen_. Yes, these would be traditions he could enjoy here, and would look forward to celebrating in the years to come. In time, they might even help convince him that _this_ place was home.

But for now, spending the rest of the evening wrapped in his wife’s arms would be more than sufficient to the task of cheering him. It was, after all, what he had waited over five hundred years to be able to do.

 

_Elvish Vocabulary_

_ennin – periods of 144 years_  
_melchalen – lit. “dear green”, my attempt at a Sindarin word for mistletoe_  
_meleth – beloved_  
_narutawar – lit. “red wood”, my attempt at a Sindarin word for cinnamon_


End file.
